


The Pack Survives

by MageOfCole



Series: The Northern Wolf, a Southern Doe [5]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV), Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, The Inheritance Cycle - Christopher Paolini
Genre: Adoption, Aftermath of Violence, Aged-Up Character(s), Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Magic, Arranged Marriage, Awkward Flirting, BAMF Sansa Stark, Bisexual Sansa Stark, Cersei Lannister's A+ Parenting, Direwolf mama lives, Dragon Riders, Drama & Romance, F/M, Falconry, Family Bonding, Family Secrets, Father-Son Relationship, Female Harry Potter, First Kiss, Found Family, Getting to Know Each Other, Ghosts, Harry Potter is Helaine Baratheon, Haunting, Hawking, House Lannister, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Insecurity, Jon Snow Knows Nothing, Jon Snow Knows Something, Jon Snow is Not Called Aegon, Jon Snow is a Targaryen, Lannister Family Drama, Learning to Fight, Magic, Male-Female Friendship, Mentions of Offscreen Romance, Ned Stark : ULTIMATE DAD, Past Relationship(s), Political Alliances, Quote: The lone wolf dies but the pack survives (ASoIaF), Quote: You know nothing Jon Snow, Reincarnated Harry Potter, Reincarnation, Robert Baratheon's A+ Parenting, The Pact of Ice and Fire, assasinations at the dinner table, bad relationships, betrothal, description of corpses, direwolves, stark family bonding, world building
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-11
Updated: 2020-01-20
Packaged: 2021-02-18 09:37:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 11,506
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21758854
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MageOfCole/pseuds/MageOfCole
Summary: As the wedding of Helaine Baratheon and Robb Stark grows closer, the pack grows stronger
Relationships: Allyria Dayne/Jon Snow, Catelyn Stark/Ned Stark, Cersei Lannister/Jaime Lannister, Elia Martell/Lyanna Stark/Rhaegar Targaryen, Harry Potter/Robb Stark, Melara Hetherspoon & Jaime Lannister, Robert Baratheon/Cersei Lannister
Series: The Northern Wolf, a Southern Doe [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1418488
Comments: 640
Kudos: 1579
Collections: Favorite Reads





	1. JON I, CATELYN I, EDDARD I

**Author's Note:**

> Also don't forget to check out A Silver Fawn and Blackened Stags; it's a follow up to A Doe Among Lions, thus making it a prequel/prologue to this story, about Robert's reaction to Helaine's birth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's time to build some relationships!

_**The Northern Wolf, a Southern Doe** _

_**The Pack Survives** _

JON I

Sneaking out of Winterfell and into the Wolfswood has become easier in the last few months – it was required, after all, to protect two of the greatest secrets of the North; _dragons_.

Months ago, Jon Snow – _Jaehaerys Targaryen_ – had helped rediscover the hidden vault of Cregan Stark, filled with treasures and gold the historical Stark Lord had, according to his personal journals, collected as recompense for the broken Pact of Ice and Fire, then later added to after the Hour of the Wolf as rewards from Aegon the Third. Separate from the Winter Fund, Cregan’s Vault had been steadily added to over the following generations of Lord Starks, up until the death of Lord Rickard Stark and his Heir, leaving the unprepared second son to take the Lordship he had not been trained for.

But it hadn’t been the treasures that had captured Jon’s attention – that honour had fallen to the collection of dragon eggs, five of them; one of which, silver and white, had drawn him in.

And with the hatching of his dragon, Jon had learned the truth.

He hadn’t spoken to his _uncle_ since; not beyond simple, short answers, awkward greetings, and stilted ‘ _Lord Stark_ ’s.

As he plods closer and closer to the cave network where the dragons have been sequestered away, Jon can feel his connection to Spirit growing stronger, her excitement thrumming through him like the thunder and starbursts.

Within moments, the sound of a dragon bouncing through the layers of snow reaches his ears, and Jon can’t quite fight the smile that grows at the sight of his dragon leaping towards him with a happy growl. Now the size of a large hound, Spirit bowls him over as she connects with his chest, sending man and dragon sprawling into the snow.

With a chuckle, Jon sits up, allowing the happy reptile to curl over his lap and chatter as his hands skim over pale scales to scratch under her jaw.

CATELYN I

The weight of the falcon lies heavy across her arm as she crouches before her daughters, and Catelyn Stark smiles at the sight of the identical expressions of excitement on the faces of her beloved girls, so different and yet so similar at the same time.

The bird on her hand is small, young, and bred specifically so that she could teach her daughters the art of falconry, a gift from their grandfather after Catelyn had written to the Lord Tully of her intentions to take control of Sansa and Aryas’ lessons.

“Falconry is a sport of Ladies.” Catelyn tells them, “Men may hunt, but Ladies train falcons to catch game for us. This is a hybrid gyrfalcon, a young one; your grandfather spent quite some time trying to find a pure gyrfalcon to breed with one of his personal falcons – they’re native of the North, but falconry isn’t practised among Northern ladies as much as it is by those in the South.”

“Why is that, mother?” Sweet Sansa asks, eyes on the magnificent white and gray bird.

“Because Northerners _hunt_.” Arya scoffs, but Catelyn can see the child-like eagerness her youngest daughter tries to hide.

“Northerners are a practical people.” Catelyn explains, “You’ll find that many prefer to hunt because it doesn’t take as long. Falconry requires the patience to teach and raise a falcon from a young age, with the right training, a falcon can hunt and catch small game.” As her daughters stare at the young bird, Catelyn glances upwards, her blue eyes meeting her husband’s gray as he watches them fondly. “This falcon is yours; you will train it together.”

Sansa eyes the bird with wide blue eyes, “Can we name it?”

Catelyn laughs, “Of course, but you have to agree on the name.”

“It can’t be anything stupid!” Arya cuts off her sister’s response, “You’d probably name it something silly like _Princess_ or something.”

Sansa bristles at her sister’s words, “Well you’d give it some barbaric name if you could!”

“ _Girls_.” Catelyn cuts off the heated words, “Our falconry lessons won’t start today, you will have until the following week to agree on a name, if not, you will be proving to me that you aren’t mature enough to handle these lessons.”

Both girls lower their heads, properly scolded, and Catelyn stands.

“This one is too young to begin learning just yet.” She assures them, “I’m sure that you can find a name that will fit both your criteria.”

EDDARD I

Ned looks up from the documents and letters scattered around him as he turns to stare out the windows of his solar, just on time to see the small figure of his nephew plod through the courtyard like a darkly-clad ghost. For a moment, the Lord of Winterfell can swear he sees the faintest image of another figure following the lad, garbed in white and red with long dark hair, but he blinks and the figure has vanished on the wind, leaving Ned to question if it was ever there.

A sharp rap on his solar door drags his gaze away from Jon’s figure.

“Enter.”

A head of thick black curls peers around his door, Lannister-green eyes studying him intently as the Baratheon Princess slips into the chamber and curtsies respectfully. “You wished to see me, Lord Stark?”

Ned smiles warmly at his future gooddaughter, “Princess – come in. Take a seat.” He tells her, and the young lady returns his smile and claims the chair across from his desk, sinking into it and arranging her blue skirts around her. “It’s almost your name day,” The Lord starts, and she nods quietly. “The King has requested that your marriage to Robb be held within the fortnight following the celebrations.” Princess Helaine sighs quietly, “The royal party has just left the capital and is expected to arrive within the next month.”

“I suppose I should have expected that.” Helaine murmurs.

“Are the dragons going to be safe staying in the Wolfswood?” Ned asks, and the dark haired princess hums thoughtfully.

“Jörmungandr is quite happy to stay in the caves; he enjoys exploring – and I believe I can convince him to move deeper in so that he can stay out of sight.” She tells him, “Though I, _personally_ , can’t promise anything in terms to Spirit. That would be up to Jon.” Ned sighs, and he earns a sympathetic smile from the princess in response. “Can you blame him for being angry, Lord Stark? Everything he thought he knew was a lie.”

“I can’t.” Ned replies, “All those times he came to me, asking who his mother was – I had every chance to tell him then...”

Unfathomable emerald eyes study him, “Why didn’t you?”

“I didn’t want to loose him.” He admits under her gaze. “Is it selfish of me to love him as if he were mine own son? When he had two – three including Princess Elia – parents who had wanted him desperately.”

“Lord Stark – if I may be blunt – he _is_ your son.” Helaine tells him, gently taking his larger hand in her own. “ _You_ raised him. _Your_ love is the _only_ love of a parent that he knows. It’s _you_ that he models himself after, and it’s _you_ that he looks to for support.” Ned blinks, looking up to meet her passionate gaze and kind smile, “He loves _you_. But a lifetime of lies is hard to forgive and forget. Trust me.” She smiles sadly, “ _Talk_ to him, tell him the full story. He deserves that much.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 2 sneak peek:  
> His eyes are closed, and he can feel Helaine’s lashes brushing against his cheeks as she tilts her head to deepen the kiss and lessen the pressure of their noses pressing against each other’s, curling her arms around his shoulders to pull herself even closer to his chest.


	2. HELAINE I, ROBB I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some politics balanced by cutesy moments

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I'm posting this chapter to accompany an announcement about my planned update schedule: I'm going to try to stick to one chapter a week, but sometimes I may get ahead of myself if my progress is going well, and I'll throw in a special treat in the form of a second update (which I'll also do if I have a short enough announcement).  
> Since I've just finished chapter 6, I think I'll be pretty consistent with my posting, but if anything comes up I'll put them in the notes :)  
> Lots of love, COLE  
> 2019-12-12

_**The Northern Wolf, a Southern Doe** _

_**The Pack Survives** _

HELAINE I

“I’d like to ask for your perspective.”

Seated across from her future goodfather, Helaine leans back in her chair as she studies the Northern Lord; he’s a good man, she can see that, though heartbreakingly naïve even after all he’s gone through – though said naivety could be a result of his honour and desire to see the best in people.

Harry Potter was the same in a lot of ways, though angry at the world – maybe if he had lived longer, he could have had the same calm disposition as Lord Eddard Stark, but Helaine would never know; he had died early and young and angry.

“I can try.” She responds, and Lord Stark smiles.

“I have no skills in politics, no patience for it either.” The dark haired man admits with a chuckle, then sobers. “But it’s something I _must_ learn as a Lord of a Great House. You learned politics in King’s Landing, so I believe you could have some useful insight.” He pushes a sheet of parchment across the oaken desk, allowing Helaine to quickly skim the documents.

“You’re looking into marriages.” It’s not a question, and Lord Ned nods. Leaning back once more, Helaine hums thoughtfully and lets her Slytherin out to play. “ _At least_ , you need your eldest daughter and second eldest son to marry North, to strengthen the bonds you have with your bannermen; both you, and your heir, married South, and your father organized Southern betrothals for his children as well. A bit of a slap in the face to the Northerners, I must say.” The way the Stark Lord sighs, lends Helaine to believe that he’s heard something similar before. “Sansa needs someone kind; she’s a sweet girl, but her head’s been filled with stories, and she has no idea how the world works. Innocence I can admire, but blind innocence will get her killed.” Thoughtfully, she twists a black curl around her finger as she casts her mind back. “I’ve met Domeric Bolton; he’s young, but he’s a talented knight. Historically, House Stark has had some… _issues_ … with House Bolton, so trying to bridge the animosity between your Houses would be advantageous for you – and while Ser Domeric is older than Sansa, it’s not a large gap – considering previous age differences.”

“I’ve heard good things about Domeric Bolton.” Ned admits as he pulls a blank sheaf of parchment and makes a few notes. “I believe he’s currently residing in the Vale.”

“Bran, on the other hand, I would suggest a House that has shown yours strong loyalty in the last few generations. One with a daughter close enough to his age.” Helaine says slowly, and she can see an idea taking root behind her to-be goodfather’s gray eyes.

“The Mormonts.” Eddard mutters pensively, “Lady Maege Mormont has a daughter Bran’s age.”

“The warriors of Bear Island.” Helaine nods, “He’d need a keep as well, as the second son, and he’s also expressed a wish to become a knight, so you may want to look into finding a knight to take him on as a squire… For keeps, I’d suggest Moat Cailin, but it may be better suited for Rickon, since you would have more time to have it rebuilt.” She hums, eyes moving to his map of the North, and straightens as an idea hits her. “ _Queenscrown_!”

“The Gift is property of the Watch.”

“It is, but the Nights Watch is severely undermanned and underfunded.” Helaine says, and the Lord frowns bitterly at the reminder. “Queenscrown is abandoned, the land is going unworked because of it. If you could work out a deal with the Black Brotherhood, Bran could become Lord of the Gift, and he could pay taxes directly to the Nights Watch instead of the Crown.”

“It’s a good idea,” Eddard agrees, “But we can’t make decisions for Robert.”

Helaine raises her brow, “Do you have any idea how much my father _owes_ you? It’s comparative to how much he’s in debt to the Lannisters.” She tells him, “I _know_ you’ve been giving him loans, loans he _hasn’t_ been paying back, and I doubt he can.”

“So I just, _collect_ that debt in the form of _allowing_ Bran to become Lord of Queenscrown?” He sounds doubtful, and Helaine snorts ungracefully.

“You’re getting the hang of this.” She informs him, deeply amused by the befuddled look on his normally stern face.

ROBB I

Robb catches Helaine as she leaves his father’s study, he has a basket in hand and a blanket thrown over his arm. Her hair is loose around her in an storm of thick curls, save for the braided crown circling her head; she’s wearing a blue and gray dress, decorated around the skirt with a thin layer of white bone lace, with a furred collar circling her neck.

She looks like a Northern Lady, and it takes his breath away.

“Lord Robb?” She looks at him, surprised, as Robb flushes nervously, adjusting his grip on the basket he’s recently collected from the kitchens.

“Your Highness.” He bows quickly, meeting her eyes as she smiles, confused. “Would you care to join me for lunch?”

She brightens immediately, “Of course!”

Flustered, Robb offers the princess the arm not occupied by their load, which she takes graciously. “I had some lunch prepared for us in the kitchens, I thought we’d have a picnic. Though I realized afterwards that it’s too cold to do so outside today.” He admits with a chuckle, and continues to ramble as they stroll through the corridors of Winterfell. “So I thought, why not have it inside? Of course, it won’t be the same as having one outside but we can do that another day -”

“Robb?” Helaine interrupts gently, and he cuts off with a stutter, meeting her soft green eyes. “It sounds lovely, _thank you_.” Barely tall enough to reach his shoulders, the princess has to pull him downwards halfway as she stands on her toes to press a fluttering kiss against his cheek.

Stunned blue eyes meet bright green as she lowers herself once more with a sweet smile, and before he can think twice about it, he impulsively wraps his arm around her waist, drawing her closer, and he dips his head to capture her lips with his own. His eyes are closed, and he can feel Helaine’s lashes brushing against his cheeks as she tilts her head to deepen the kiss and lessen the pressure of their noses pressing against each other’s, curling her arms around his shoulders to pull herself even closer to his chest.

A delighted shriek forces them apart in alarm.

Sansa is standing at the other end of the hall, her hands clasped in front of her face as she grins at them in delight, Arya at her side, the young girl’s nose crinkled in child-like disgust. But what mortifies him the most, however, is his mother; the Lady of Winterfell is standing behind her daughters, a brow raised sternly but amusement in her river blue eyes.

“ _Mother_!” Robb squeaks, then coughs as he lets go of his betrothed, “ _We_ – _I’m_ – I’ve invited Princess Helaine to join me for lunch.” Small hands wrap around his arm once more, and he glances at Helaine to see her gaze shining in amusement.

“ _Lunch_ – I _see_.” Mother’s eyes slid from him, to Helaine, and to the basket in his hand. “I do hope you were planning on taking a _chaperone_ with you.”

Helaine speaks up immediately, voice smooth. “We were just on our way to fetch Ser Loras.”

“ _Yes_!” Robb glances from Helaine’s innocent expression to his mother’s stern one, “ _Ser Loras_! We’re heading there, right now!”

“Well then,” His mother finally allows an amused smile to pull at her expression as she gently ushers Sansa and Arya past them, and she gently presses a kiss to his forehead. “Enjoy your lunch, dearest.” She nods to the grinning Helaine, then the three female members of House Stark vanish around the corner.

Silence follows, until Helaine begins to giggle.

“We better go find Ser Loras then.” She tells him, her thick curls cushioning her head as she lays it against his shoulder and begins to lead him down the hall. “I think he’s in his chambers.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 3 sneak peek:  
> Sansa opens her mouth to say something in return, hesitates, then closes it, blue eyes suddenly thoughtful and shrewd as she looks from the bow, to the arrow, and finally to Helaine. “You’re not what I thought you’d be.”


	3. HELAINE II, ARYA I, SANSA I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some girl bonding

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just so everyone is aware, I've bumped up ages by about 3 years - so it's 300AC instead of 297AC/298AC, I'm just delaying all the major events in the books.
> 
> Ages so far:  
> Mya Stone - 20  
> Falia Flowers - 19  
> Allyria Dayne - 19  
> Bella Rivers - 17  
> Robb Stark - 17  
> Jon Snow - 17  
> Jeyne Westerling - 16  
> Helaine Baratheon - 15/16  
> Gendry Waters - 15  
> Joffrey "Baratheon" - 14/15  
> Sansa Stark - 13  
> Edric Storm - 12  
> Shireen Baratheon 12  
> Arya Stark - 11  
> Myrcella "Baratheon" - 10/11  
> Bran Stark - 10  
> Tommen "Baratheon" - 9  
> Rickon Stark - 6

_**The Northern Wolf, a Southern Doe** _

_**The Pack Survives** _

HELAINE II

She draws the arrow slowly, straightening her back and rolling her shoulders, enjoying the stretching of her muscles; green eyes are staring down the shaft and towards the target, locked on the red dye of the bullseye. _Breath in, breath out_ , she allows herself to blink to steady her aim, and as she opens her eyes, she releases the arrow.

_Thip!_

It leaps from the bow, soaring through the air, and Helaine’s eyes follow the yellow dyed feathers through it’s arch.

_Thunk!_

Quivering, the arrow nails home through the bullseye, and Helaine chuckles, allowing her arm to droop gracefully.

“You’re very talented.” A sweet voice rings across the training yard, and the princess glances over her shoulder to see the young Sansa Stark studying her with large blue eyes; there was a sharp intelligence behind those eyes, hindered by young naivety and smothered by the expectation to be the perfect wife. Helaine wanted to see that intelligence blossom, to see Sansa grow into the powerful woman she _knew_ the girl could be with the right motivation.

Helaine smiles at the beautiful girl, “Thank you, Lady Sansa.”

Sansa returns it, “Please, just call me Sansa, Princess – we’re to be sisters, after all.”

“Then you can just call me Helaine,” She replies, “Sisters don’t use titles. Unless it’s as an insult.” Helaine amends with a laugh, and Sansa giggles. “Would you like to try?”

Startled, the red haired girl’s laugh cut off, blue eyes lock on the bow held in the princess’ grasp. “I couldn’t possibly!” She gasps, nervously glancing towards the others in the training yard, and Helaine smiles softly.

“You never know until you try.”

Sansa opens her mouth to say something in return, hesitates, then closes it, blue eyes suddenly thoughtful and shrewd as she looks from the bow, to the arrow, and finally to Helaine. “You’re not what I thought you’d be.” She admits finally, and Helaine cracks a crooked grin.

“Is it the sword?”

“Among other things.”

“King’s Landing is a dangerous place to be a princess.” She reveals, and Sansa blinks. “It’s a dangerous place in general, of course, but it doesn’t have the best history towards princesses. The world in general isn’t kind to women or girls.”

“What do you mean?” Sansa asks, voice hushed, and while Helaine felt bad about it, the girl needed to _understand_ that the world wasn’t all pretty songs and gallant knights ready to sweep her off her feet.

She smiles sadly, “Do you know what happened to Princess Elia and her children?”

“I know they died.”

Helaine hums, moving to pull her arrow from the target as she collects her thoughts. “It was tragic, and it was _unnecessary_.” She tells her quietly, “An innocent woman, a girl barely past her fourth name day, and an infant who had only just seen his first. All killed – mutilated – in the place they called home. Princess Rhaenys was hiding under her father’s bed; she was dragged out from underneath it, stabbed until she died from the trauma, but they continued to stab her. Over and over again.” Eyes distant, Helaine could distantly hear Sansa’s horrified gasp, but her ears were ringing with the echoes of a young girl’s terrified screams – for her father, her mother, and her kitten – as they melded with the sounds of a wailing babe and the begging of a woman for the lives of her children. “Princess Elia was forced to watch as Prince Aegon was taken from her arms and dashed against the wall. His skull was crushed. The monster’s hands were still covered in her baby’s blood when he killed her, and did _unspeakable_ things to her corpse.”

A muffled sob drew Helaine from the spectres of the past, to see Sansa standing with her hands pressed against her mouth as she tried to quiet the tears dripping down her cheeks. Helaine jolted, dropping her bow from suddenly numb fingers, her face pale as she met the girl’s horrified stare.

“I’m sorry.” She mutters; not having meant to get lost in the nightmares that had plagued her all her life. She had meant to tell her, _yes_ , but _not_ in so much detail. Sansa shook her head, rubbing furiously to rid herself of her tears, before she throws herself at Helaine, arms wrapping tightly around the older girl’s shoulders and pressing her face into Helaine’s chest as she shook. Hesitantly, Helaine returned the hug, waiting silently as her goodsister collected herself.

“Can you teach me?” Sansa’s voice is quiet, choked, and Helaine looks down at her in surprise as the red head pulled herself away enough to meet her eyes. Her blue eyes are determined, burning with the same passionate fire that Helaine has seen in Robb’s expressions, “I want to learn how to defend myself – so I can protect my family.”

“Of course.”

ARYA I

Arya _knew_ her sister was acting odd – she wasn’t _blind_.

It wasn’t immediately obvious, but Arya Stark _knew_ her sister; as much as they didn’t get along, Arya had known Sansa her entire life, they shared their nurseries for a time, before mother decided that Sansa was old enough to have her own room. Back then, they had played together, Sansa as the beautiful princess and Arya the brave knight who would save her from the dragon – but Sansa had grown up, she had taken to her _lady lessons_ in a way Arya never would, and they had grown apart.

And with distance, had come a mutual dislike.

Arya had watched, quietly from the shadows Perfect Sansa cast over her, as her sister began to grow colder to Septa Mordane, her blue eyes harder with every passing lesson as the septa droned on and on about what a lady should do and not do. She saw every faint tremor that shook Sansa’s hands as they sewed, the way she looked more and more tired with every day, but _pleased with herself_ nonetheless.

So Arya had decided to investigate.

And now, during the later hours of the night, she is hiding in the shadows outside of Sansa’s room, waiting for her sister to emerge. It takes a good while, and Arya is close to giving up when Sansa’s door creaks open and her older sister emerges, and Arya nearly yelps in surprise; it _was_ Sansa who came out, but she’s dressed in a _tunic and trousers_ , her long crimson hair tied in a severe Northern braid instead of the silly Southern styles she usually wore.

She has a _sword_ at her hip, and a _bow_ in her hands.

Sharp blue eyes surveyed the corridor, missing Arya’s small frame hidden in the shadows of the alcoves, before Sansa set off, scurrying down the hall, and Arya gave chase before she can loose sight of her sister.

SANSA I

Helaine was waiting for her in their secret training field, sequestered away behind the lichyard, and hidden from sight by the shadows of the First Keep. The older girl had already set up their targets in the time before Sansa’s arrival, Mya Stone at her side as she conversed with her lowborn sister.

At Sansa’s entrance, and lit by the full moon, Helaine turns her head, green eyes meeting her own blue as she smiles, “Good to see you, Sansa.”

Blushing at Helaine’s undivided attention, Sansa ignored the fluttering in her stomach as she leans her bow against the low stone wall that separated them from the ancient graveyard. “Sorry I’m late,” The oldest daughter of the Lord of Winterfell huffed, “I had to take the long way around.”

“Can see why.” Mya Stone grunts, and Sansa startles at the usually silent woman’s gruff voice. “Y’got a shadow.”

A yelp came from behind her, and Sansa spins around in alarm just in time to catch Arya ducking out of sight behind the wall. “ _Arya_!” The older of the Stark sisters squawks, “What are you doing here?!”

“You’ve been acting weird!” Her sister volleys, no longer bothering to hide as she steps into their training yard. “I wanted to see why!”

“So you _followed_ me?!”

“Well, yeah.” Arya snorts, slinking closer and staring at them with burning gray eyes. “Nice sword. What happened to _ladies don’t fight_?”

Sansa tugs on her braid in frustration as she watched her annoying little sister as the girl poked at the targets and studied her weapons. “You _can’t_ tell _anyone_!”

“You’re out here learning how to fight and you think I’d _tattle_ on you?! This is amazing!” Her sister gasps, “Why didn’t you tell me?! I wanna learn too!”

“You _can’t_!” Sansa cries, and Arya’s head rears back like she’s been slapped at Sansa’s breathless exclamation, looking offended.

“What d’you mean, _I can’t_?!” Arya barks “ _You_ are!”

“I’m learning so that I can protect _you_!” She finally wails in irritation, and her little sister flinches away, eyes wide, before she swells again.

“I don’t need _you_ to protect me!”

“ _Whoa_ – hey!” And suddenly Helaine is there, stepping between the bickering sisters, “Let’s take a deep breath and a step back before anyone says something they regret.”

Shaking, Sansa turns to Helaine, trying to fight back her angry tears, “ _Tell_ her that she _can’t_ learn!” She pleads, and Helaine’s stern expression softens before she places a gentle hand on the younger girl’s shoulder.

“Sansa, I _know_ that you want to protect Arya, but she has as much right as you do to learn.” Sansa’s stance droops, as Helaine continues. “Arya has the right to protect herself too. To _not_ be defenceless.”

Sansa thinks back to Princess Elia, Princess Rhaenys, and Prince Aegon; how the Martell princess had been forced to watch as her defenseless babies were killed – she doesn’t want to be like Prince Rhaegar’s wife, she doesn’t want to have to watch her family killed.

“So you’ll teach me?” Arya asks excitedly, and both Sansa and Helaine nod.

“Of course.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sneak peek for chapter 4:  
> The Prince who lived a lie under the bastard name Jon Snow, the one stain on Lord Eddard Stark’s honour, an outcast in his own home. His father and mother were dead because of a lie, his stepmother was dead because of a lie, his older brother and sister dead before they would even know him – all because of a lie.


	4. JON II, EDDARD II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some Father-Son bonding

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope everyone has a safe and happy holiday!

_**The Northern Wolf, a Southern Doe** _

_**The Pack Survives** _

JON II

His ~~father~~ – _uncle_ finds him standing in front of his mother’s crypt, staring up at her face, desperately trying to collect his thoughts; all his life, he had thought Lyanna Stark was his aunt, a tragic figure in Northern history. A woman taken from her home and family, three brothers who loved her, a father who doted on her, and a betrothed who was still waiting for her after all these years to be whisked away by a jealous prince – left to be raped and tortured in a far away land.

But that had been a lie – Lyanna hadn’t been kidnapped, _or_ raped, she had married the Silver Prince, and bore him a son.

Jaehaerys Targaryen.

The Prince who lived a lie under the bastard name Jon Snow, the one stain on Lord Eddard Stark’s honour, an outcast in his own home. His father and mother were dead because of a lie, his stepmother was dead because of a lie, his older brother and sister dead before they would even know him – _all because of a lie_.

Lord Stark could have saved him years of dark looks and heated whispers, if he had just told the truth; if only to his _wife_. The woman who had spent years hating a child for the sole fact that he wasn’t hers, who could have treated him as family if she had known that Jon wasn’t her bastard _stepson_ , but her trueborn _nephew_.

“Jon.”

The dark haired Targaryen stiffens, turning to stare at Lord Stark as the man walks down the dark corridor towards him. “Lord Stark.” Jon greets coldly, gray eyes flashing in the torchlight. “Come to pay respects?”

His uncle sighs sadly, eyes moving from Jon to the stone face of his dead sister. “I had just seen my nine-and-tenth nameday when I learned that my brother and father were dead and my sister was missing.” The man told him, “They told me that Lyanna had been abducted by Rhaegar, and that Brandon had ridden to King’s Landing to demand her return. My father was burned with wildfire, and my brother strangled himself for even the _barest_ chance that he could save him. And then the Mad King was calling for Jon Arryn to hand Robert and I over to share the same fate.” He lets out a slow breath, “I had been raised as the second son, and suddenly I found myself as the Lord of Winterfell, forced to marry my brother’s betrothed to ensure an alliance with the Riverlands; a woman I had never met before our wedding, and a woman I didn’t love. And then we rode to war.” Gray eyes – eyes shared between uncle and nephew, mother and son – met his once more, “And when we reached King’s Landing, the _victorious rebels_ , we found that the capital had already been sacked by Lannister men; women and children raped in their homes, smallfolk murdered. And in the Red Keep, were three bodies wrapped in Lannister cloaks. Princess Elia and her children, your brother and sister, had been brutally slaughtered, when they _could_ have been spared and sent back to Dorne. I was horrified, but Robert -” The solemn Lord Stark shudders at the memory, “He spat on their bodies and called them _dragonspawn_. Jon Arryn told me it was a _necessary evil_. I left the capital within the hour, and headed for Dorne, where I had been told that Lyanna was being held.” His uncle blinks, but it didn’t do anything to hide the few silent tears that roll down his cheeks. “I arrived at the Tower of Joy to find three members of the Kingsguard blocking me from my sister. We fought, and only two people walked away from it – myself and Lord Howland Reed. That’s when I heard Lyanna’s screams; she had just given birth when I had arrived, she was weak and bleeding out, and she begged me to protect you – and I promised to do so. She named you Jaehaerys Targaryen as she died, and I claimed you as Jon Snow, my baseborn son, to keep my promise.”

“You lied.”

His uncle nods, “I lied – compared to my love for my younger sister, my honour was _nothing_ to me, so claiming her beloved son was an easy choice, because if the truth was known, Robert would have stopped at _nothing_ to see you join your siblings. And so I left the rightful King of the Seven Kingdoms to wallow in the life of a noble bastard. I didn’t know who I could trust, because if a single rumour got back to the man who claimed your throne, you’d be dead, and House Stark with you.” A gentle hand ran across his sister’s tomb, “So I raised you as my own, and as you grew, so did my love for you. I wished that you _were_ mine, so many times, because I loved you like you were my son, and I _hated_ Rhaegar for being the one to have fathered you.” The Lord of House Stark sighs and Jon’s eyes burn, “Jon, you are both my nephew _and_ my son. I raised you, and I loved you where your parents couldn’t, and I will always love you, no matter what you chose to do.”

Jon shook with sobs as his ~~uncle~~ – his _father_ turns to him once more, tears running down his cheek, stinging in the frigid air of the Crypts of Winterfell, and without a moments hesitation, Jon threw himself forward, crashing into a broad chest as warm arms wrap around him.

“Hush, my boy,” His father murmurs into his curls, dropping to his knees to gather him closer to his chest, “I’m here, my son. I’ll protect you.”

“I’m sorry -” Jon is sobbing, “I’m _sorry_ , Father. _Father_ , I’m sorry!”

“You have _nothing_ to apologize for, cub.”

EDDARD II

When the tears had run dry, Eddard stood, allowing Jon some semblance of privacy while the lad tried to rub away the proof of his moment of weakness and gather himself.

Quietly, and partially to himself, Ned says the words his own father had drilled into his head since he could remember, the _true_ words of House Stark; “When the snows fall and the white winds blow, the lone wolf dies, but the pack survives.” He gently traces his sister’s stone hands as he speaks, regretful that his beloved little sister had felt so abandoned by her own pack that she had run away. “You may be a dragon, Jon, but you’re also a wolf. You’re a member of my pack.”

“Thank you for telling me.” Jon replies quietly, and Ned smiles bitterly.

“I should have told you years ago. But I was a coward.” He then moves past his sister’s statue, towards her stone tomb, where he placed his hands against the cold slate, takes a deep breath, and _pushed._ The lid of Lyanna’s tomb grinds as it moves, drowning out the sound of Jon’s gasp, “I should have done _this_ years ago.” He reaches in, fingers searching for the treasure he buried with his sister, something that he should have given to her son when he was old enough to understand the need for secrecy.

When he turns to his son once more, it was with a bundle in hand, the black and crimson fabric of Lyanna’s marriage cloak obvious in the dim light of the crypts.

“This belongs to you, lad.”

Jon is gentle as he takes it, reverent as he unravels to fabric to reveal the shining blade of a Valyrian steel sword; it was a slender great sword, originally forged for a woman’s hand, but not out of place in his son’s graceful and quick-footed grasp. The pommel was gold, a stylized flame, and there was a gleaming fire opal on the cross guard; and as a loyal student of history, Jon could easily recognize the legendary blade.

“ _Dark Sister_.” Jon murmurs, “It’s supposed to be _lost_.”

“Rhaegar left it with Lyanna,” Eddard tells him, and the lad’s wide gray eyes meet his own. “There were other gifts left behind for you. I chose to bury these with Lyanna, but Howland has everything else; I’ve written to him, asking him to send the chest. They’re your inheritance after all.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapte 5 sneak peek:  
> Her voice is pleading, and it drew him up short. “I need you to trust me.” Ned hesitates as her hand pressed against his own; her eyes were wide, beseeching, but there was also something in her expression, something powerful and ageless, that made him let go over his gooddaughter’s arm and nod.


	5. HELAINE III, EDDARD III, CATELYN II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> DIREWOLVES INCOMING

_**The Northern Wolf, a Southern Doe** _

_**The Pack Survives** _

HELAINE III

Clad in thick riding clothes and a furred cloak, Helaine laughs as her mount canters through the thin layer of snow blanketing the floor of the Wolfswood; she enjoys the feeling of the wind brushing through her curls, it made her think of flying and freedom. Her bow was sheathed across the pommel of her saddle, and a quiver bounced against her thigh as she moved with her horse. The soldiers brought with them carry their bounty, lines of squirrels and hares resting across their own horses from their hunt.

“We should be heading back to Winterfell.” Lord Stark muses, casting a gaze to the orange sky. “The sun will be setting soon.” Helaine sighs, pulling on Cider’s reigns to bring the palomino destrier to a steady halt as she turns to gaze towards the hunting party, meeting Robb’s gaze as her betrothed shrugs with a rueful smile, and she shoots him a playful pout in return.

She was turning Cider around when a faint sound on the wind catches her attention, pained and hungry, and she freezes, head turning to gaze deeper into the woods, brows furrowing as she tries to catch the noise once more. Helaine slides off her horse, crouching in the snow as she lands, straightens, and glances back to the hunting party as she waves for them to stop.

“Helaine?” Robb askes, eyes narrowing as he studies the darkening woods as well.

“There’s something out there – it’s hurt.”

“I’ll come with you- ”

“Robb, stay here.” Eddard orders, pushing himself off his horse as Helaine moves past him to unclip a single snow hare from her game belt, and he adjusts his sword. Robb is frowning, gloved hands clenched around his reins, and she offers him a small, sympathetic grin before she moves on. Helaine met her goodfather’s gray eyes, and the man nods to her, falling into step beside her as she moves into the forest and off the hunting trail.

EDDARD III

“My god’s Ned mutters as he finally catches a look at what had drawn Helaine’s attention in the first place; a massive gray creature the size of a horse knelt before them, lips drawn away from sharp fangs as it snarls, and golden eyes flashing defensively. Caught in a rusted bear trap, was the magnificent figure of his House’s insignia. “A _direwolf_!”

“A pregnant direwolf.” Helaine murmurs, “Look at it.” He follows the princess’ gaze, studying the beast closely, tracing the protruding ribs and the bulging stomach. “It must be close to pupping.”

She was moving towards it again, and Ned catches the girl’s elbow as the direwolf snarls again.

“Careful.” He mutters, and she met his stare evenly.

“It’s trapped and hurt.” She insists, but he pressed his lips together in a thin line.

“And a trapped beast is a dangerous one.”

Her eyes flash momentarily at his hissed words, and for a moment, the world around them is silent. “Lord Stark – _Father_ -” Her voice is pleading, and it drew him up short. “I _need_ you to _trust_ me.” Ned hesitates as her hand pressed against his own; her eyes were wide, beseeching, but there was also something in her expression, something _powerful_ and ageless, that made him let go over his gooddaughter’s arm and nod.

Helaine smiles, gently squeezing his hand before she is moving again, stepping slowly and carefully across the ground as the trapped wolf continues to growl. Ned is left watching stiffly as she lifts her hands and holds them in front of her, nonthreateningly, murmuring gently to the injured creature, her words lost to the rustling leaves above them.

And somehow, her soft voice _worked._

The wolf stops growling, hackles lowering as it studied the dark haired girl with intelligent golden eyes, ears perked in interest. Without breaking her gaze away from the direwolf, Helaine gestures him over, and Ned hesitated before copying the girl’s actions.

Her eyes gleamed with delight when he came to a stop beside her, moving to kneel in the snow as the beast’s keen stare moved from the girl and to the larger threat, and Ned couldn’t pull his eyes away from the wolf’s stare, even as Helaine gently took his wrist, pulling off his glove and gently bringing his hand to rest in front of the direwolf’s snout. Ned knew without a doubt, that it would only take one snap for the massive wolf to rip his hand off and devour it.

But it never happens – instead, the wolf reaches towards him, sniffing curiously at his hand as Helaine releases his wrist. There was a moment of silence, before the beast closed the gap and presses its cold nose against his bare palm.

Ned jolts, and for an instant, he was staring through the wolf’s eyes, looking up at himself, studying his own graying- brown hair, beard, and gray eyes; he felt her curiosity, pain, hunger, and keen intelligence, before it was gone, and the Lord of Winterfell gasped as he returns to his own body. But an echo remains, the faint feeling of a wolf in his mind as man and beast continue to stare at each other.

 _Snap_!

Both Ned and the direwolf flinch at the sound of the bear trap being pried apart, the wolf yelps as Ned turns his gaze to Helaine while she gently began to wrap fabric torn from her riding dress around the injured leg. She meets his eyes, pausing in her medical administrations just long enough to toss the dead hare towards him; the wolf’s golden eyes followed the arch of the dead creature hungrily, snapping at it when it got close enough and plucked it from the air.

Hesitantly, Ned reaches towards her, gently caressing large grey ears in fascination as the wolf seems to lean towards him, basking in his soft attention.

CATELYN II

Her skirts dance around her legs as Catelyn Stark strides through the corridors towards her lord husband’s study, heart hammering as she tries to look as calm as possible; the news of the hunting party’s return had spread quickly, awed stories of a massive direwolf accompanying them being told from one servant to the next. The Northerners saw it as an omen, a sign from their Old Gods to show their favour to House Stark; but Catelyn had heard the rumours, and felt fear thrum through her veins. Wolves were wild creatures, not pets to be brought into the keep they shared with their _children_.

Wolves were vicious, hungry beasts, and her young children could be seen as tasty treats to the creature Ned had brought into their home.

Catelyn knocks hurriedly on the ancient wood, barely waiting for her husband’s voice granting her entry before she was opening the door and rushing into the chamber.

Only to startle back with a shriek of alarm at the sight of a massive gray beast stretched out in front of the fireplace, comfortably warming its swollen stomach as it devours the food that had been placed in front of it, staining its silver muzzle red with blood. The sound of her voice, however, has the beast lift its head, golden eyes pinning Catelyn in place as a large tongue lapped at the red smears.

“ _Cat_?” Ned stands, looking at her in alarm from behind his desk, completely at ease sharing space with the monstrous creature.

“What is _that_ doing here?” Her voice is shrill as she presses herself against the door, blue eyes locked on the beast as it decides she was not as appetizing as meat that had been prepared for it prior. Ned, however, continued to stare – her yell had probably startled him, since his gray eyes were wide.

“Are you alright, Cat?” Ned moves around his desk, moving towards her and gently taking her hands in his own, drawing them away from her mouth where she had placed them in an attempt to muffle herself as to not draw the beast’s attention once more.

“ _Me_?” She echoes sharply, “Why is that _beast_ here!? In the _castle_! Where our _children_ sleep!”

“Catelyn, she won’t hurt you.” Ned soothes, and Catelyn twitches nervously. “Direwolves are the symbol of our House, having one choose to come with us to Winterfell is a great honour.”

“Wolves are not _pets_.”

“Of course not,” Ned assures her, “But she’s injured, and close to pupping – she’ll probably choose to move on once her leg heals.” Catelyn casts another glance at the direwolf as it finishes its meal, huffs, and lays its massive head on its paws. “Rose is surprisingly gentle for a wolf that’s spent her life in the wild.”

“ _Rose_?”

“Winter Rose.” Ned’s pale cheeks flush faintly, shrugging sheepishly. “I suppose I’ve grown attached.”

Catelyn releases an unladylike groan, resting her head in her hands in defeat. As much as she loves her husband, it’s not _her_ that their children inherited a weakness towards animals from; Ned and their children shared a love for wild creatures that usually resulted in someone trying to hide a squirrel under a bed or a bird in their wardrobe. “You _named_ it.”

A squirrel she could live with, and at least birds were _manageable_ – but a _wolf_ , of all things!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sneak peek for chapter 6:  
> Standing between Lady Catelyn and her Uncle Renly, Helaine watches with blank eyes as the royal party parades into Winterfell, red and gold blinding against the gray and white North that she had grown to love so much.


	6. HELAINE IV, ALLYRIA I, ROBB II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The royal party arrives in Winterfell

_**The Northern Wolf, a Southern Doe** _

_**The Pack Survives** _

HELAINE IV

Standing between Lady Catelyn and her Uncle Renly, Helaine watches with blank eyes as the royal party parades into Winterfell, red and gold blinding against the gray and white North that she had grown to love so much. Green eyes scan the faces she could see, picking out Ser Jaime and the Hound first and foremost, followed by her brother – in all his golden glory with his cruel eyes and perfectly coiffed hair, who stares around the courtyard with open distaste – and finally, leading the wheelhouse, is her father.

Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Lord Eddard jolt the moment the King of the Seven Kingdoms dismounted his horse with a booming laugh to crush him in a hug as well as a man with a girth to match his height can. It remindes her that the last time her goodfather had seen his foster brother, was during the Greyjoy Rebellion, before King Robert Baratheon had truly let himself go to sink himself into his pleasures and not resurface.

“Your Grace,” Her goodfather murmurs with a barely noticeable hesitation, bowing quickly. “Winterfell is yours.”

Helaine, however, couldn’t help but smile when her attention was stolen by sweet Myrcella and shy little Tommen as her youngest siblings are guided out of the wheelhouse by their mother, two pairs of identical green eyes meeting her own and lighting up in delight. But in her distraction, her father has moved on to greet Lady Catelyn, and Eddard to the Queen, before attention is moved to the children.

“My children Your Grace-” Eddard announces, “My heir, Robb-”

Her father let out a booming laugh, lifting a startled Robb into a bone crushing hug, “There you are, lad! No ceremony needed! We’re to be family after all!”

“Of course, Your Grace.” Helaine sends her betrothed a sympathetic glance as he manages to huff out an answer through his compressed lungs, before staggering when he is finally released. Robb’s blue eyes met her own, and he offered her a small smile as he straightens his doublet.

Within moments, King Robert is introduced to Sansa-

“As lovely as your mother!”

Arya-

“Fierce little thing!”

Bran-

“You’ll be a mighty warrior!”

And little Rickon-

“A little more growing and I’ll have to look out!”

Finally, unable to put it off any longer, her father’s stormy eyes meet her own and her uncle’s hand tightens protectively on her shoulder.

“Welcome to Winterfell, Your Grace.” Helaine murmurs, dropping into a curtsy as the King stares at her with an impersonal gaze.

“You’re a woman grown now, lass.” He says, but without any emotions behind it that could classify the words as nostalgic in the face of a daughter he hasn’t seen for a year; he pats her awkwardly on the shoulder with enough force to make her wince and stagger slightly, before moving on to lift his seething brother into a hug.

Rolling her shoulder, she meets Robb’s worried gaze, and offers her betrothed a small smile.

ALLYRIA I

Allyria is gently applying bruise cream over Helaine’s shoulder, a fierce scowl on her face as she studies the steadily purpling skin where the younger Lady’s father’s hand had landed, when a knock on the door draws both ladies’ attentions. Sharing a glance with her lady in waiting, the young Baratheon quickly shrugs on her robe as Bella, who had been laying out the Princess’ dress for the feast, moves to greet the visitor.

“Lord Robb,” The Rivers greets, an almost amused smile lighting her features as she glances towards Allyria and Helaine, the latter of which nodding as Allyria snickers and moves to begin brushing the younger girl’s thick curls. “Come in.”

“Thank you, Lady Bella.” The Heir of Winterfell offers the natural born lady a polite smile, before his blue eyes land on Helaine and he’s moving towards the two noble girls. “Are you alright?” His voice pitches lower, his gaze worried as he studies his betrothed, and Allyria didn’t try to hide the smile the young man’s care brings her.

“I’m _fine_ , really.” Helaine assures him, leaning back in her chaise to watch him as he took a few steps closer and Allyria moves further away. “I’m used to it-”

“That’s not as comforting as you may think it is, Princess.” Allyria murmurs, getting a sour look from the green eyed girl. She meets Robb’s gaze, smiled sadly at the question in his eyes, and the young man sighs.

“ _That_ doesn’t make it _fine_.” Robb grumbles but presses a gentle kiss to the princess’ forehead, and Allyria titters quietly at how his cheeks flush.

“He’s always been like that.” Helaine shrugs, “Believe me, he used to be worse. I’m pretty sure he only talks to me _now_ to spite Mother dearest.” The auburn haired Stark growls under his breath at the words, much like the wolf that symbolize his House. “I don’t mind, _really_!” She assures, “I have my uncles, and Myrcella and Tommen – that’s enough for me.”

“You have us, too.” Robb promises, “You’re a member of House Stark now.”

Amused, Helaine says; “We’re not married yet.”

Flustered, Robb responds; “You’re Father’s ward.” Allyria watches, charmed, as the young man averts his eyes from Helaine’s smile, cheeks pink as he plucks the hairbrush from where the Dayne had placed it and bringing it to the princess’ curls.

“Do you even know how to use that?” Helaine asks, and the young heir snorts.

“When Arya was five she refused to let anyone but Jon or I do her hair.” He admits, and Helaine chuckles. “We weren’t very good at it, but we had to learn.”

Watching fondly, Allyria backs away from the two betrothed, giving them some semblance of privacy as Helaine relaxes under Robb’s gentle hands. Violet eyes met Bella’s blue, and the two young woman share a smile.

ROBB II

Robb is stuck, jaw clenched and fist clamped around his knife as he listens to the King’s voice over the din of the feast, or watches the Queen’s cold disgust with everything around her. The fat man is openly drunk as he tears into the ptarmigan that had been placed in front of him, one meaty hand holding a leg aloft as he gestures wildly to a quietly disapproving Lord Stark; beside him, Helaine twitches every time her father lets out a booming laugh or her mother’s gaze sweeps past her, her smile forced and shoulders stiff.

Helaine’s hand shakes momentarily as the King’s hand purposely brushes against Falia’s hip while the Flowers passed the man to reach the princess’ side and refill her goblet, the princess’ emerald eyes flashing in fiery fury. As she leans past the younger lady, the baseborn maid murmurs something in her ear that had Helaine forcibly relaxing her grip on her drink.

Slowly, Robb drops his cutlery to instead place his hand over his betrothed, turning to mutter quietly to the dark haired princess.

“Lovely family you have.”

Humored, Helaine hides her snort by taking a sip of her berry juice, “You haven’t even seen _half_ of it.” She replies lowly, “He’ll get even _more_ hands on with the staff in a few moments, and Cersei will begin plotting assassinations soon – of course, that’s her _natural_ thought process.”

“ _Wonderful_.”

“Be careful she doesn’t see you whispering,” The princess mutters into her goblet, “She’ll think you’re talking about her.”

“We _are_ talking about her.”

“Then you’ll need to sleep with one eye open, my love.” She informs him gravely, but the smile twitching her tinted lips shows her amusement.

Blushing, Robb leans away, but he doesn’t release her hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 7 sneak peek:  
> Perfectly manicured hands with the same golden skin shared between mother and children, are dipped in red – a young girl is chained to the Lannister Queen; a pretty little thing if it weren’t for her blackened eyes dripping tar-like tears down a blood-spattered face as she stares at the woman, accusing her.


	7. HELAINE V, JAIME I, TYRION I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> uwu what's this? more plot?
> 
> (aka Lannister Family Drama)

_**The Northern Wolf, a Southern Doe** _

_**The Pack Survives** _

HELAINE V

With the royal party, came an influx of ghosts.

To Helaine’s eyes, the vapour-like figures look like fog crawling across Winterfell, many of them chained to someone – either as a regret or for a chance of vengeance beyond the grave; it was easy to see which is which. Those chained by a regret carry silver chains, but those who are held in the living world by hatred?

Their chains are stained red with blood.

Seated in the great hall of Winterfell, Helaine often finds her eyes wandering, glancing from one spectre to the next, studying them, trying to piece together who they had been in life; but most of all, her gaze was drawn to her mother’s hands. Perfectly manicured hands with the same golden skin shared between mother and children, are dipped in red – a young girl is chained to the Lannister Queen; a pretty little thing if it weren’t for her blackened eyes dripping tar-like tears down a blood-spattered face as she stares at the woman, _accusing_ her. She looks barely eleven, with lovely cinnamon coloured curls knotted with blood and dripping water, freckles stark against a pale face, and dressed in a drenched violet dress in the Westerland’s preferred style.

A hand lands on her shoulder, and Helaine startles, head snapping around to meet her uncle’s identical green eyes.

“Princess?” Ser Jaime asks quietly, expression one of muted worry. “You look ill.”

“I’m fine!” Helaine assures him with a practiced smile, but she knows her golden uncle doesn’t believe her, because he frowned – his green eyes following the path hers once did, and Helaine could see the _exact_ moment when he catches sight of the spectre.

The Kingsguard knight flinches, face paling, lips parting and his hand tightens on his niece’s shoulder. “ _Dear gods_.” The man mutters hoarsely, “ _Melara_?”

Mind made up, Helaine takes her uncle’s hand and stands, abandoning her breakfast to tow the knight out of the great hall, offering smiles and nods to the eyes that land on them, averting her own gaze away from Robb’s faint frown, and continues on, completely natural and not showing the anxiety she felt.

JAIME I

The moment they enter the Winterfell library, Jaime turns on his niece, the image of the ghostly Melara Heatherspoon chained to his sister spinning through his mind as his heart pounds in his chest. “What was _that_?” He demands, and quiets himself when Cersei’s oldest daughter presses a finger to her lips in an obvious shushing gesture as she tugs him deeper into the shelves of scrolls and tomes. “What’s going on, Helaine?”

“You saw her.” Helaine murmurs, and Jaime tugs his hand from her grasp.

“ _Saw her_?” He echoes hurriedly, “ _What_ was I seeing?” Her eyes meet his as she nervously toys with her dark Northern-styled braid, and her hushed answer feels like being doused with icy water.

“A vengeful spirit.”

“ _What_?” Jaime croaks, head spinning. “Why would _Melara_ be a _vengeful spirit_?”

“Who’s Melara?” She asks quietly, and Jaime runs a hand through golden curls.

“Melara Heatherspoon – she was your mother’s childhood friend. She fell in a well and drowned years ago. It was an _accident_.” Jaime insists, but something in his royal niece’s emerald eyes made him doubt his conviction.

When he had first met the little silver haired baby Helaine had once been, he had been prepared to _hate_ the girl – hate her as he hated her father; but he had seen the tiny babe shoved away and forgotten in a blood stained nursery, the same nursery where he had failed his duty to protect Princess Elia and her children, and his mind had been over taken by the memory of another silver haired infant. In that moment, he had held her in his arms as she smiled at him, uncaring of his crimes, and swore to protect the small child, to protect in a way he hadn’t protected her predecessors.

And now, looking into the girl’s ageless eyes, the memories of the happy baby she had once been felt far away.

“How could _you_ see _her_?” The girl questions, “What connect did she have to _you_ , beyond that of being _Cersei’s_ friend?”

Jaime stutters slightly, a far cry from his usually arrogant self, “She was my friend too.”

“More than just a friend I suppose.”

“I… admired her.” He admits hesitantly as the princess probes for answers, feeling almost compelled to answer, to get the weight of his guilt over her tragic death off his shoulders. “She was pretty, bold, confident, I think she admired me too – but she was a daughter of a landed knight.”

“And then she died.” Helaine finished, and Jaime averts his eyes. “You feel _guilty_ about it.”

“I didn’t have anything to do with her death.” He replies, defensive.

“If you had, she would have been haunting _you_ instead.”

He sucks in a breath at her blunt words, gaze flashing to Helaine’s once more. “Cersei _wouldn’t_ have.”

“Didn’t you see her hands?” Her voice is distant, nearly drowned by the sound of his heart pounding in his ears and yet ringing with clarity. “They were stained with blood.”

TYRION I

“How can _you_ see them?” The murmuring grew clearer as Tyrion approaches, his small body hidden by the towering shelves of the ancient Winterfell library – he could recognize Jaime’s hushed voice, alarmed and frightened by whatever ‘ _they_ ’ were.

“Maybe Mother and Father are right,” Came the amused response from Tyrion’s only legitimate niece, “I’m cursed.” Curiosity peaked by the princess’ light but self-deprecating comment, echoing what Tyrion had hoped the kind-hearted and fiercely intelligent girl hadn’t heard whispered by her parents in the corridors of King’s Landing, the Dwarf of Casterly Rock made himself known.

“What’s this about my sweet niece being cursed?” Tyrion pitched his voice to convey good humour as he shot his older brother a teasing look, “I hope you aren’t planting such mean things in our princess’ head, brother.”

“Uncle Tyrion!” Helaine’s green eyes brighten at the sight of him, her entire form lightening as if his appearance had stolen away whatever dark thoughts were weighing her down. “I didn’t see you at the feast last night!”

Tywin’s Bane laughs, gently pressing a kiss against the princess’ knuckles, “I’m afraid I fell asleep reading a fascinating tome about the Children of the Forest.”

She giggles, “You really need better vices, uncle.”

“Well, Dearest Niece, if you think so, then I must comply!” While Helaine may have relaxed in his presence, Jaime has yet too – his brother was still and pale, his lips pressed together in a thin line and his fists clenching at his side. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost, Jaime!” Tyrion states jokingly, but his smile drops when the taller man flinches violently. “Wait – _seriously_? – you saw a ghost?”

“Can’t hide anything from your eyes, can we, uncle?” Helaine jokes, nervously shimmying her hands in front of her, palms out and fingers spread.

“Melara Heatherspoon.” Jaime grunts, crossing his arms over his chest, and Tyrion’s brows furrowed.

“Aren’t the Heatherspoons a landed House of knights?” He asks, “I don’t recall Ser Tybolt’s census having a Melara in them.”

“She _was_ his daughter.” His brother murmurs, “She drowned in a well in 276 at ten and one.”

“That would explain it,” Tyrion admits shrewdly, “That’s tragic – but why would we be seeing her as a ghost?”

“Because she was _pushed_ into that well.” Helaine states bluntly, and Jaime flinches. “By mother.”

Tyrion barely blinks – honestly he’s not too surprised that his dearest sister killed another girl, but he can see the pain it’s causing their brother – his eyes shifting to Jaime, and narrowing suspiciously. “You _liked_ the girl.”

“We were children.” It’s a non-answer, and his expression is definitely one of guilt.

“So you have a childhood sweetheart who dies suspiciously.” Tyrion muses, “Jaime, I love you – you’re my brother – but Cersei hasn’t been _right_ for… for as long as I can remember. She’s possessive of you – I _can’t_ bring myself to be surprised that she would murder to keep her claws in you.”

“She does tend to treat you like you _belong_ to her, Uncle.” Helaine mutters, and Tyrion watches sadly as his brother’s shoulders slump in defeat, the truth finally taking root in the knight’s stubborn head, watered by years of suspicion and exhaustion, and seeded by Tyrion’s own past comments about Cersei’s various lovers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 8 sneak peek:  
> Robb is trying – he’s trying to win her over despite the awkward situation of being betrothed – despite having decided to sign away his own limited freedom as the heir to the North to save his sister from an unhappy marriage in the South.
> 
> To the Rabid Cersei Stan: please go away, you've already decided that you don't like my writing, so just stop reading.


	8. HELAINE VI, ROBB III, JON III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's a time for drama, and that time is now

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a heads up that this marks the end of my pre-written chapters, I'm going to try to stay on schedule, but they might be a little slower to be posted

_**The Northern Wolf, a Southern Doe** _

_**The Pack Survives** _

HELAINE VI

Her nameday comes and goes in a flurry of feasts and loud voices; like every nameday before it, it’s not a celebration of Helaine’s birth, but just another day for her father to drink, feast, and have sex with whatever poor serving girl has caught his attention and who can’t turn him away without fearing retribution. Just another day for her mother to glare at her, blaming her, or coldly brush her off as she dotes on Joffrey – at least she has Myrcella and Tommen, who are endlessly sweet, and no matter how much the Queen pushes them to do otherwise, will never renounce Helaine as their favourite. She spends her nameday feast unable to keep her gaze from wandering to the blood-stained spirit of the vengeful Melara Heatherspoon, unable to ignore the Queen’s mounting ire as her twin brother goes out of his way to avoid her.

Helaine walks through the corridors, a small smile on her face as she listens to Tommen ramble about his cats, and Myrcella speak about the capital, their hands curled into her own as they bounce excitedly at her side, bright-eyed and smiling. She ruffles Tommen’s pale blond hair as she listens to Myrcella talk about her up-coming eleventh nameday, and how she wants to continue Helaine’s tradition of giving coin and food to the children of King’s Landing, how she even wants to invite some of the children to the celebration but she’s afraid of how mother and father would react.

“When are you coming home, Hela?” Tommen pipes up, “Lady Pounce misses you.”

Helaine’s smile softens at the nine-year-old’s question, “I’m not coming back the King’s Landing, sweetheart.” She tells him gently, making her youngest brother pout.

“Helaine’s about to get married, Tommen.” Myrcella gushes excitedly, “You’re so lucky, Hela – Lord Robb is so handsome.”

The oldest laughs, pressing a kiss into Myrcella’s golden curls, “You’re still a little young to be thinking about marriage, Cella.”

“If Hela isn’t coming back to King’s Landing, I don’t want to go either!” Tommen grumbles, then giggles when Helaine blows a raspberry against his cheek.

“That’s something you have to take up with Father and Lord Stark, Tommy.”

Determined, her baby brother huffs, “I will!”

Helaine laughs again, swinging their linked hands enough to make both of her siblings titter.

ROBB III

Robb meets his betrothed outside of her chambers as she rounds the corner, with a sibling hanging from each hand as they talk to each other is bright, friendly tones. Three pairs of emerald eyes shift towards him as he makes his presence known with a polite cough.

“Robb!” Helaine greets in surprise, attention pulled from her brother and sister at his appearance, “What are you doing here?”

“I came to wish you a happy name day.” He admits, toying with the fabric-wrapped gift he has squirreled away behind his back, and offers the two younger Baratheons a bow. “Princess Myrcella, Prince Tommen, a pleasure to see you again.” Prince Tommen ducks behind Helaine’s skirt timidly, but Princess Myrcella offers him a polite, if shy, smile in return as she curtsies.

“Lord Robb.”

Smiling, Helaine casts a look towards the two guards shadowing her, “Edric, could you take Myrcella and Tommen back to the royal chambers?” The younger of the two, a tall lad of ten and two with dark hair and blue eyes paired with some unfortunately large ears, nods and steps forward while the oldest princess turns her eyes once more to her more Lannister siblings. “We can talk again tomorrow, but it’s nearly your bedtime.” She presses a kiss to each of their foreheads, then ushers them off with a quick word of thanks to her bastard brother as he passes, leaving the two betrothed alone with Ser Rolland Storm’s silent gaze.

Green eyes turn to meet his own, and Helaine stares for a moment, her gaze inquisitive, somehow _older_ than he could understand as she studies him, a familiar amused quirk to her lips, and Robb hesitates, a sense of insecurity washing over him in the face of his betrothed. It the same smile he sees on his mother’s face when little Rickon does something exceptionally stubborn in a way that makes him adorable.

Sometimes, he feels like a child next to Helaine.

Robb is _trying_ – he’s trying to win her over despite the awkward situation of being betrothed – despite having decided to sign away his own limited freedom as the heir to the North to save his sister from an unhappy marriage in the South. It wasn’t what he would have chosen for himself, but he’s trying to make the best of it despite that; yet at times it feels like Helaine is merely toying with him, hiding things from him, and despite making progress, it feels like he’s always taking another step back when he watches how easily she bonds with the others in his family.

Despite being younger than him by a year, Helaine seems older than him somehow, her fondness for him seemingly more amused than anything else at times, like Old Nan whenever he had brought her flowers as a young child.

Pushing away the thoughts, Robb smiles as the dark haired lady, shifting awkwardly to bring the large gift forward, and hand it to Helaine. “Happy name day, Helaine.”

She blinks, gently taking it from his grasp and turning the fabric over as she unravels it to reveal the beautifully crafted ironwood bow, running deceptively delicate hands over the black wood. “Thank you, Robb.” Helaine’s voice is quiet in response, her eyes wide, and she hesitates for moment, opening her mouth to say something, but settling on; “It’s lovely.”

Awkwardly, and hoping it doesn’t reveal how stiff he is, Robb bows, “Good night, Princess.” Her eyes are studying him once again, and she looks faintly worried, but she doesn’t say anything.

“Good night, Robb.”

JON III

“You’re avoiding me,” Jon startles at the voice, spinning around to see Allyria Dayne slipping out of the shadowy alcoves behind him, eyes gleaming in the torchlight as she stares at him. For a moment, gray eyes stare into purple, before Jon averts his gaze “You haven’t even been able to _look_ at me since the Crypt. Are you _that_ ashamed of the truth?”

“I’m _not_ ashamed.” He says; he’s _not_ ashamed of who he is, but growing up as a bastard son with little to no prospects before learning suddenly that he’s royalty has been jarring, it’s thrown him off balance to learn that everything he thought he knew was a lie – but Allyria is a _Dayne_ , a Targaryen loyalist.

And Jon is a _Targaryen_ ; now that he knows the truth, how can he trust her intentions? How can he trust that her feelings are for _him_ , not for his House? At least as a bastard, she was something unreachable, they could agree that a relationship between them wouldn’t be possible – but now everything is _different_.

How could he trust that her support wasn’t solely because of his Targaryen bloodline?

“Then why are you avoiding me?” She demands quietly, and Jon frowns. “You’re the rightful King-”

“You’re a Dayne.” Jon interrupts, “A lady of a noble House – a House with ties to the Targaryen dynasty.” He finally meets her gaze, seeing the confusion swimming in their violet depths, “How can I know that it’s _me_ you care for?”

“Jon-”

“We _agreed_ – we agreed that _nothing_ could happen between us. Because you’re a lady, and I was a _bastard_.” He explains further, mind casting back to that night – remembering the drinks on both of their breaths, the kiss they nearly shared all those weeks ago, before the Crypt and before the dragons; he remembers the conversation that followed, the agreement they had come to. “How can I believe that anything that happens _now_ isn’t just because of _what_ I am? How can I trust that you – that what you’re doing isn’t because of who my parents were?”

“I care for _you,_ Jon-”

“ _Do_ you?” He cuts her off quietly, “We almost had something, but – we agreed that we wouldn’t go further. Now you’re telling me that you care for me, but only _after_ we learned the truth.” Allyria hesitates, eyes wide, before she frowns.

“You know _nothing_ , Jon Snow.” She tells him angrily, “I wanted you then, and I want you _now_ – but I respected _your_ feelings and I stepped away because _you_ wanted me to. I didn’t care that you were a bastard – just like I don’t care that you’re a Prince. I can choose who I want to fuck, just like you can choose _not_ to, and I respect that!” Jon rears back at her sudden anger, but she doesn’t stop. “You told me to stop, so I _stopped_. You weren’t ready, and I was fine with that. When you told me we _couldn’t_ , I agreed because _you weren’t ready_. You acted like being a bastard meant that you weren’t allowed happiness – you wanted me too, just as much as I wanted you, but you weren’t ready to go that far because of your bastardry. But that _doesn’t_ matter, and I thought that the truth would have made you realize that!” Taking a deep breath, Allyria straightens, “Have a good night, Jon.” She turns and sweeps away into the darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No chapter nine sneak peek because it hasn't been written yet - oops


End file.
